


Knight's Tour

by arenoseAnima



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dragon Age II, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arenoseAnima/pseuds/arenoseAnima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cersei might have bitten off a little more than she can chew trying to take on a guardswoman of Kirkwall. Wherever that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight's Tour

 "In the game of thrones," says Cersei, "you win or you die."

Aveline crosses her arms. "That's the weakest excuse for _attempted murder_ I have ever heard, queen or not." Her lips are set in a firm line, her sword half-drawn from its scabbard, ready to lop the head off any traitorous monarchs that might pose a threat. Cersei is confident that she can evade any swings of this large, clumsy woman's weapon, and a single shout would bring guards streaming from the rest of the castle, heavy doors or not.

Cersei allows her swishing step across the Red Keep's back room to pause for a moment. "Attempted murder? Is _that_ what you're hounding me about?" She barks a laugh, not loud enough to spread from the Maidenvault.

(Aveline had suggested this particularly secure room as a place for their _conference_ , ignorant of the history behind the chamber. As a newcomer to King's Landing, motivated only by the desire to prosecute a queen, Aveline has no idea of the history between the Lannisters and Margaery; that is precisely the way Cersei would like to keep things. The queen graciously allowed the woman to make a mockery of herself and her never-ending search for justice, but now, with Aveline's steel-clad strength in between her and the exit, blocking any hope of escape, she suspects Aveline knew what she was getting into all along. Damn this dog of the law.)

"Hounding you, am I?" The rasping clatter of steel on steel sounds through the room - Aveline has put her hands on her hips as she laughs, more fully and with more obvious pleasure than Cersei could manage. She grits her teeth. She will _not_ be outdone. "Good," says Aveline. "Then perhaps I'll be able to smell the corpses you've buried. I suspect you haven't hidden them very deep."

Cersei starts to bark a retort, but Aveline is already clumping out of the room. She turns her head and calls over her shoulder, "back to your queenly duties, now!," an infuriating smile on her freckled face. Cersei is furious. Cersei is indignant. Cersei is _intrigued_ , and that's the worst of all.

\---

Queenly duties have lost some of their lustre when every paper Cersei glances over has already been sniffed by her new hanger-on. The evening after their first meeting, she walked into the registry, prepared for a night of stripping the Starks of whatever assets can be claimed, to find Aveline sitting in her chair poring over a recent letter from Lord Baelish. Her strong chin rests in one begauntleted hand; a wisp of hair has escaped her ponytail and dangles in front of her face, occasionally blown away by a puff of breath. Cersei's heart is in her throat, and she wishes dearly for it to be _anywhere_ else.

Rather than burn a hole in Aveline's armor with her stare, she averts her eyes to the stack of letters next to the guardswoman's elbow. There must be a dozen there, perhaps more, and all doubtless incriminating her in the filthiest of deals. Cersei's blood would run cold, but -

Aveline, ever vigilant, is without a doubt aware of Cersei's presence the moment she enters, and she fails to draw the sword always at her side. She only continues to read Baelish's latest suggestion that Sansa be awarded to him.

"This man is a dunderhead," says Aveline, without looking up. "I recommend you have him eaten by lions before he embezzles anything more from your treasury." Cersei swears there's a smile in her voice, though her face is as stoic as ever.

Cersei leans her hip on the desk and affects nonchalance. "I thought you disapproved of capital punishment?"

"I approve of capital punishment _under the law_ ," Aveline says crisply. "Either way I suspect this Baelish would be worth bending the rules." She taps a sheaf of papers near the inkwell. "Your correspondence with him has been... enlightening." Then she looks up at Cersei, daring her to respond.

Heat wells up inside her, but Cersei only smiles. There was nothing of particular interest in that pile, she remembers, and if it indicts Littlefinger regardless, all the better for her. "Then you can go corroborate your findings in the stocks," she says, "which is where I am about to put you for thumbing through my sensitive documents."

"I was warming your chair," Aveline says. She stands up and dusts off the back of her armor, as though sitting in Cersei's seat has commuted the grime of backroom deals onto her. Once she's satisfied with her cleanliness, she pulls the chair back and gestures Cersei into it. Cersei settles there with an aggrieved sigh she doesn't care enough to stifle.

A few silent minutes pass during which Cersei begins her work, and also during which Aveline fails to move a single muscle. This gets Cersei's blood up more than any banter could hope to. She's standing at Cersei's side like she belongs there, six feet of infuriating competence, just _waiting_ for Cersei to slip up so she can draw the sword that hangs ever at her side.

"Are you all right?" Aveline asks. Cersei is jerked out of her downward spiral of rage to see that she's scribbled all over her response to a strategically vital southern lord, and the inkless quill has scratched through the vellum. Her cheeks redden.

"Yes," she says through gritted teeth. Aveline snorts, but says nothing, and Cersei goes back to her work writing the letter anew. With the burn of Aveline's eyes on the back of her neck, her concentration barely lasts until the end of the customary string of meaningless flatteries.

"What are you _looking_ at?" Cersei spits. Her quill makes an escape attempt from her clenched fist, but she catches it before it gets very far. The tip quivers on the page.

She realizes too late - "Nothing much," Aveline says, amused.

"Must you be so flippant about everything?!" Cersei rises from her chair. She tries to keep a semblance of control, to pretend that she isn't furious even after her outburst, but when she stands her hands are balled in her gown. "You come in and disrupt my work, you ruin every meeting with courtiers I've had since you arrived - just arrest me and end this ridiculous charade!"

Aveline's eyebrows climb her forehead. "You're fed up with me after scarcely a week has gone by? I thought it would take at least a fortnight."

"I was fed up the moment you arrived!" Cersei slaps her palm down on the desk. It stings, but the pain helps to focus her. "Get out," she says, in a tremulously level voice. "Get out. I have important work to do."

"Then," says Aveline, "I will review the activities of these criminals elsewhere." She picks up a stack of papers and leaves without another glance at Cersei. The heavy double doors thump shut behind her.

Cersei wets her lips with her tongue. The pieces slide into place, and with a delicious flash of clarity she understands what Aveline is driving at. Very well. Perhaps she can stay.

\---

Cersei, as acute as Aveline wishes she was, stands in the kitchen and watches the nightly feast being prepared. The servants bustle around her, uncomfortably aware of her presence - if a crafty assassin manages to poison her meal now, she supposes, she will have earned her ignominious death. It isn't as though other monarchs haven't been deposed by a dribble in the meal.

She thinks of Robert and chuckles.

A maid near the spinning pork-laden spits catches Cersei's eye and moves towards her through the sea of peasantry. Cersei recognizes her, in that she knows her house, her temperament, her allegiances, but not her name; a queen cannot be seen to understand her subjects too intimately.

"I've a gift for Ser Aveline, if my lady would be so kind as to deliver it," the girl says, and presses a mug of beer into Cersei's hands. Impudent, Cersei thinks, but never allows her brow to furrow even as the maid riffles her thumb against her index finger and sprinkles a sampling of powder into the drink, not once breaking eye contact.

"It will find her," Cersei says. The maid smiles, satisfied with the knowledge that she's pleased her lady. After all, everyone in King's Landing knows of the foreign knight hounding their _righteous_ lady. Eliminating her would almost certainly catapult them into Cersei's good graces, or at least keep them alive.

\---

Cersei returns to the hall before their meal is finished cooking. Aveline has claimed the seat nearest Cersei for herself, and sits there with her scabbard in her lap, her gaze nearly audible as it swishes here and there through the hall. Somehow, she knows when Cersei exits the kitchens, and turns half-towards her with a furrowed brow. A deviation in Cersei's routine, and thus worthy of notice. Exactly as Cersei planned it.

"A gift for Ser Aveline," says Cersei as she sits, placing the mug between their settings. During a normal meal, the space between Cersei's and Aveline's plates and seats is a no-woman's land; a fingernail across the invisible border is a challenge, and _placing_ something there is an opening salvo.

"I am not _ser_ anything," says Aveline. She doesn't move her hands from her scabbard, but her teeth peek over her bottom lip, and a tiny wrinkle appears between her eyebrows.

"Then your admirer must have mistaken you for someone important." Aveline's brow wrinkles deeper. Though witty repartee has become their new favorite pastime, rarely does Cersei take it so far at the outset; Aveline surely knows that something is wrong. Even moreso when Cersei takes the mug and splashes its contents onto the floor. A servant or two gasps, but she has no looks to spare for them. The stains will come out easily, and whatever poison the girl used doesn't appear to be eating a hole through the flagstones.

Aveline looks up from the spreading blemish and into Cersei's face. Cersei realizes with a sudden lurch that it's she who has been poisoned.

\---

Later, when Aveline has pursued Cersei back to her quarters, Cersei finds herself once more at the mercy of two hundred and fifty pounds of woman and steel. Aveline's eyes are narrowed, her thumb fidgeting at the palm of her gauntlet; it's all Cersei can do not to reach out and hold her still. Aveline fascinates her, and there is nothing Cersei enjoys more than to turn a fascination into a puppet acting in her mummer's play.

"At supper," Aveline says. "What was that?" Her gaze sweeps over Cersei's face, searching for lines of uncertainty, anything that might give her away. Cersei is enjoying their little game. She'll toy with Aveline a bit, she thinks, and then show her hand - the perfect Lannister and mouse scenario, all the sweeter now that she's certain she has the advantage.

"It wasn't yours," says Cersei. "I'm not familiar with the laws where you come from, but I suspect theft is a crime there, yes?"

Aveline looms ever nearer. "You offered it to me. You knew _exactly_ what was going on, and you are under the mistaken impression that you can trick me. To what end, I don't know, but it won't work." Oh. She's figured it out. Well, that's less fun. Cersei wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes and resolves to do better next time. There's always a next time, when it comes to hoodwinking the dull-witted, or the obsessed, or the law-abiding.

"It was poisoned," she says, her voice dripping with boredom. "I saved your life."

Aveline looks genuinely surprised - that _is_ a gratifying expression - and asks, "why? You hate me."

Giving the honest answer in most situations is a poor idea, Cersei thinks, but she discovers all at once, in a rush like being dragged under cold water by a merwoman, that the honest answer here is rather different from what she thought it was. The thought that Aveline might die if she were poisoned had crossed her mind inasmuch as her game hinged on it, but the thought that she wouldn't _want_ Aveline to die is a wholly new one. She is well aware that she is the crux of Aveline's plans to indict her fellows, though the two of them trade dominance in power and banter and sheer competition almost hourly; more than once Cersei has toyed with the fact that her death would ruin Aveline's plans, and she finds the thought strangely unappealing. She hates Aveline? No, not really. In fact -

"Ah," says Aveline. Her face is still open in surprise, now mixed with amusement. "You like me."

" _What_." The word leaps from Cersei's mouth like a rabbit through the brush.

"You saved my life because you enjoy my company. I can tell. A liar like you would never take this long to come up with a decent trick."

Cersei splutters. She actually _splutters_. This was not the plan. Being outsmarted by a justice-obsessed harpy never figures in Cersei's plans. To add insult to more insult, Aveline touches her - her thick, gauntleted fingers curling around Cersei's bare hand, and she lifts the queen's hand, and for the tiniest hopeful moment Cersei thinks Aveline might bend the knee to her, before the woman's lips brush the back of her hand and everything comes crashing down again.

"Thank you," Aveline says.

Cersei, red-faced though she tries to hide it with her hair, shoos Aveline to her cot in the hallway and climbs into her own bed to quite determinedly not think about what just happened.

\---

For a few days, Aveline is even more infuriating than usual. She tails Cersei with an air of pleased superiority, raises an eyebrow every time Cersei catches her eye, makes it quite apparent whenever she is _looking_ \- this first one is a particular imposition, since Cersei is the only one in the Seven Kingdoms allowed superiority, as far as she's concerned.

Finally Cersei tires of it. This time, she does the cornering; Aveline backs away from the fire in Cersei's eyes until they find themselves in a scullery which is swiftly emptied of servants Cersei doesn't even notice. They're considerate enough to close the door behind them, but even if they hadn't, no one but Aveline would be able to hear Cersei's hushed growl - "what game are you playing, Vallen?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," says Aveline. Cersei suspects the woman is regretting leaving her sword belt with the blacksmith for the day. Unarmed and off-guard, just how Cersei likes her prey.

"Don't lie to me, you wretch," says Cersei.

"I hardly think that kind of language is necessary," says Aveline. Her distractingly expressive eyebrows come together in consternation. "You know, I really think you could stand to improve your communication skills." Is that a smile? Is she _smiling_ while Cersei is using every ounce of her willpower to keep from tearing Aveline's armor off and - sending that to the blacksmith, too. Possibly for an extended period of time.

Cersei thinks she might need a lay down, after this.

"My communication skills," Cersei says, in an even, measured tone, "are flawless. You're the one who's been flitting around here, acting as though _you're_ the queen. I'll have you know that - "

Cersei is cut off by a loud snort from Aveline. "Acting like a queen? I've been in Westeros for less than a year, and I can tell that there _is_ no queen here. All the claimants to your childish throne are a pack of squabbling ninnies who'd slip a knife between their mother's ribs for a taste of power."

Cersei pauses, and thinks of Tywin, and Tyrion, and Joanna, and most of all Jaime. She's caught so off-balance that she doesn't realize she's been silent for full minutes until Aveline says quietly, "I'm sorry. That was too far, wasn't it."

"A queen must - "

"A queen mustn't. Really, this is getting tiring."

"Stop interrupting me!" Cersei clenches her fists. Aveline is only a stride or so away, and she closes the gap to make her very best effort to loom at a woman who is taller than her. This close, she can smell steel and the hot cider that Aveline loves. Her head swims, distracting her from her directionless frustration. What would she occupy herself with if Aveline left, as she keeps bellowing at her to do? Things would be too quiet, too boring; Aveline is more entertaining than a dozen wars.

Their faces nearly touch. Cersei wonders why before she sees that Aveline is stooping to meet her. Her ponytail is hanging over the pauldron of her armor and dangling against Cersei's gown.

"Do you want me to move my investigations out of King's Landing?" Her voice is so low, so quiet, that Cersei feels more than hears it. Cersei doesn't know how this woman can hold such disarming gentleness in the same body as a rapier wit and a determination the likes of which Cersei has never seen before.

Aveline's hand is touching Cersei's again - Cersei is too busy counting the freckles on Aveline's cheeks to see, but she can feel the cold gauntlet against her fingers. She wonders, briefly, whether the armor or the heart is stronger, and then she cups Aveline's face in her hands and kisses her.

\---

Each of Aveline's scars has a story. Cersei has never been in a battle, much less led one, and she is endlessly fascinated by the ropy patterns of scar tissue over Aveline's freckled skin. Not that she would let Aveline know that.

"You want to hear _another_?" Aveline murmurs, her heavy arm draped over Cersei's waist. "I thought you had exhausted all your possible opportunities for leverage already."

"One can never know when an enemy's weaknesses will come in handy," Cersei says primly. As primly as she can while naked and held against a much larger woman, at least.

Aveline snorts. The small puff of air ruffles a few golden hairs atop Cersei's head. Cersei begins to prepare a witty rejoinder to her companion - her _warden_ 's lack of verbal communication, but Aveline presses her lips into Cersei's hair and her thoughts dissolve into disconnected strings. She closes her eyes and cradles her face into Aveline's neck, where she can smell her skin and feel her slow, strong pulse.

Cersei is unused to the luxury of resting in her lover's arms. Aveline's calloused fingers are tracing down her back with unhurried contentment, and the touch makes Cersei tremble a little, which in turn causes Aveline to draw her closer. With Jaime, every moment was a fresh fear that they would be discovered. They had become quite adept at stealing away without their absence being noticed, but as much as she loved - loves - _loved_ Jaime, the deception never felt quite right. Perhaps being found in bed with such a common woman would cause a scandal, but at least they aren't related. Cersei suspects that's a step in the right direction.

"I have things to do," Cersei says into Aveline's freckle-splattered shoulder. No answer is apparently forthcoming, or maybe Aveline is asleep. Cersei gives her a few minutes that stretch far longer than she intended. "I said I have things to do."

"I'm sure you have plenty of responsibilities you're neglecting," says Aveline, and makes no attempt to let Cersei go. Cersei, in turn, makes no attempt to leave.

"If you don't move I may fall asleep," Cersei tells her. Her eyelids are already drooping. She decides it must be the warmth, and not at all any kind of feeling of safety which may or may not exist.

"Good," says Aveline. There's not an ounce of contrition in her tone. "I don't think you've slept for a full hour since I arrived here. I'm less a guardswoman than a convenient surface for you to slump against when you pass out."

"Are you always so intractable?" Cersei pauses. "No, don't answer that." She half-curls in the silken sheets to bring herself yet closer to Aveline. "If you weren't, I would have managed to scare you off months ago."

"And aren't you glad you didn't?" Aveline's kisses meander down to Cersei's neck. Her breath skims Cersei's skin, which is still pink from exertion, and Cersei tries to stifle ticklish laughter and escape.

Brave hunter Aveline captures her effortlessly, and one thing follows another, as they do. Her mouth is on Cersei's as the door creaks open. The smooth shift of skin against skin means neither woman hears the sound. Cersei's chin hooks over Aveline's shoulder, her eyes widen, her breath catches -

\- and she sees Tommen silhouetted in the doorway.

What follows is a maelstrom of sheets and shrieks. When the dust settles, Tommen looks more confused than anything, and while Cersei is tangled in the bedclothes, Aveline is sitting up, perfectly composed with her kiss-marked chest hidden underneath one of the sheets.

"Hello," Aveline says to Tommen.

"Hello," Tommen says back. He waddles his way over to the bed and looks around Aveline at Cersei; seeing his mother is indisposed, he peers back up into the equally-curious face of the woman who has made herself such a presence in the castle of late.

Aveline ruffles his hair. His pleased giggle lifts Cersei's heart, just like Aveline lifts Tommen into her lap. "You must be Prince Tommen," she says, her voice serious. Tommen nods with equal gravity. His eyes are fixed on Aveline's face - thankfully, since this gives Cersei time to dislodge herself. She doesn't dare disturb the pair, though. "I hear," says Aveline, "that you are a fair and just ruler. Can you corroborate these reports?"

Cersei doesn't think Tommen knows the word 'corroborate' yet, but he nods anyway. "Good," Aveline murmurs. She moves to put him down, but before she gets there he wraps his arms around her neck in a hug. Aveline _oh_ s; as she holds Cersei's small, unlucky son close to her, Cersei thinks she might start to cry.

Tommen graces his mother with a hug, too, once he's allowed Aveline to let go of him. She kisses his messy hair. For the first time, she thinks he might turn out all right, if he has a woman like Aveline to look up to. Soon enough, Cersei can hear the mewl of a kitten from the hallway. Tommen brightens to the tips of his hair and scrambles out of his mother's arms to patter back out of the room without a glance backwards.

Cersei doesn't miss the smile on Aveline's face as she watches him go.

"Well!" says Aveline brightly, once they're alone again. She turns and embraces Cersei once more, so wholly different from the way she held Tommen. Her thumb rests against Cersei's hipbone and circles it in tiny motions. "I like him. Much sweeter than that other one you told me about."

"Isn't he just," says Cersei, and presses her lips to Aveline's temple.

**Author's Note:**

> this story takes place during [a car drives past, honking loudly]


End file.
